


Beautiful Birds

by Quiller



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2018-01-01
Packaged: 2019-02-13 00:10:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12971424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quiller/pseuds/Quiller
Summary: Stark white boughs stretched overhead, netting the sky with the bloody leaves of the weirwood. The godswood of Winterfell was beautiful, no denying that. Sansa could see the first greenery pushing through the last vestiges of frost scarred earth, earth that was now heavy and peaty, staining the hem of her skirts as she knelt, pretending to pray. It was strange, how little it had changed over the years. She half expected that if she closed her eyes tightly enough, she would find herself a child again, a porcelain doll, made for prayer and beauty and a breed delicate ignorance that had been all her own. But she had changed, despite the constancy of the carved face in front of her, once a protector, now only a mockery. Spring was here and the Iron Throne was no more.





	1. Chapter 1

Stark white boughs stretched overhead, netting the sky with the bloody leaves of the weirwood. The godswood of Winterfell was beautiful, no denying that. Sansa could see the first greenery pushing through the last vestiges of frost scarred earth, earth that was now heavy and peaty, staining the hem of her skirts as she knelt, pretending to pray. It was strange, how little it had changed over the years. She half expected that if she closed her eyes tightly enough, she would find herself a child again, a porcelain doll made for prayer and beauty and a breed of delicate ignorance that had been all her own. But she had changed, despite the constancy of the carved face in front of her, once a protector, now only a mockery. Spring was here and the Iron Throne was no more. All that bloodshed, those whispered songs, the deceit- it had been futile in the end. She clasped her hands tightly, head bowed, the perfect image of a pious lady, praying to the old gods for health and good fortune, thanking them for the birth of Spring.

 

But it was Jon that she thought of, buried under snow; of Arya, hidden behind another's face as she died; of Cersei and Jaime, clawing at each other's throats for their life blood, branded red and gold, the last lions of Lannister, Tyrion's corpse between them. She thought of Daenerys' madness gripping the dragon queen like a vice as she screamed for fire, for blood, screaming with Brienne's blade hewn into her back. She thought of the twisted lump of metal that had once been the throne, of the stones of the Red Keep crumbling under dragon fire, burning man and White Walker alike. How many had died, she wondered idly. How many nameless people had been crushed by the high lord's game, by the weight of Winter? How many had she known? Faces flickered along the curve of the weirwood's mouth, the lengthening shadows turning them into a farce of what they had once been: Pe- Bran, mother, father, Rickon, Ramsay, Pe- no, Davos, Margaery, Varys, Olenna, Lord Royce, no- countless names and houses and families turned to ash. Sansa thought, and she remembered, but she did not pray. So many had been forgotten, or at best, commemorated as a smeared word in a maester's scroll, a verse in a singer's ballad. Dead. But she had lived.

 

'My love.' She turned and saw her husband coming towards her, tall and gallant and golden haired, just like her girlhood daydreams. Sansa stood, rubbing an old scar on the inside of her wrist. Childhood seemed as though it had happened to someone else, a pretty fable her septa had told her. Phelan was holding a sprig of winter roses, frosted blue, dainty thorns rendered silvery and slender against his palm. She smiled at him warmly, burying the chill within her eyes, her soul, filling it with a truth that she had forcefully rooted in her heart. That was what her mockingbird had once said to her, before she cut the song from his throat: 'You have your mother's eyes. Honest eyes, and innocent. Blue as a sunlit sea.' She had been able to hide her very soul where he could only shield his with smiles, his own grey-green eyes always reading cold. At least until the end. But hers still read as being sweet and demure and full of good faith about the world, the eyes of a true maid. What a mockery she sang, most of all to herself. 

 

The other kingdoms had fallen to disarray, to uprisings, a shaky political system frontiered by smallfolk stretching from King's Landing to Dorne. They called those places new names now, borders and people groups shifting as readily as the new spring growth blossomed under her feet. It still seemed novel to her, tucked away in the North, her kingdom standing apart, as it always had. Her husband was a good and fair king of the North, a common boy who had been knighted by Jon in his last days, given holdings and incomes and her hand with the closure of the war. Nigh on seven years ago, she realised, taking his outstretched hand and allowing herself to be led back to the stony cropping of Winterfell. She tucked the posy of winter roses into her girdle, blue against blue silk. She was not idiotic enough to believe that the North would remain untouched forever, that this tentative peace had any solid foundation, that the machinations of her formative years and the game of thrones would not resume in some form or another. She just hoped it would not be in her lifetime, selfish as it was. 

 

It seemed almost laughable to her now, that everything she had prayed for in this godswood as a child had come to pass. A life like a song, with a beautiful golden haired king to call husband, noble and wise and honourable and kind as you please. The singer's called him Phelan Fairbrow on account of his handsome face and his handsome nature, and called their children the Three Wolves Fairbrow. Golden children, flaxen haired and beautiful as their father. She had laughed when she birthed them, laughed and laughed, laughter growing thrice fold with each birth, laughter at their hair, their cherubic countenances. The midwife had been concerned, fearing her on the edge of madness each time, but Sansa warned her never to speak of it. She had wept later, as they grew, when she beheld her firstborn Eddard's staunch need for justice, her pretty Eleusine's grace and sweetness of speech, her little wolf Calhoun's cleverness and bashful smile. They called her the Spring Queen in those years when Winter had lingered still, Sansa the Sweet now that its hold was ending. But she felt quite apart from it all, as though it were a lovely facade viewed through a looking glass, bound to shatter if she reached out to touch it. 

 

They made their way back inside the walls, side by side, her hand laced in his. It still felt odd that she could taste something other than snow on the air, the breeze now heavy with pollen and rain and hay and horseshit. Southron smells, she thought, but those had been the scents of her childhood, when she dreamed of Jenny of Oldstones and her Dragonfly Prince, when Joffrey Lannister was nothing more than a pleasant, faceless fantasy. 'There is a new singer coming to the feast tomorrow', Phelan said. He delighted in that, in bringing her lovely things, in trying to make Winterfell into a sort of menagerie of beauty. 'A southron man named Afal Kamen. Have you heard of him, my love? Word has it that he is quite famous below the Neck.' She shook her head, offering a soft smile at the delight writ clear upon his face. 'Donall says he has a voice as clear and lovely as any songbird', he continued, 'that he has news of all of Westeros, and so many songs that he could sing for the whole of Spring and you'd never hear the same one twice.' 

 

 _Donall is a tuneless old goat,_ she thought.  _He would do well to remain with his horses and his stableboys and leave thoughts about singers and songbirds alone._ But she squeezed Phelan's hand with the utmost gentleness and thanked him with shining eyes and a kiss to his cheek. Sansa loved songs, something she had to remind herself of often.  _Life is not a song, sweetling,_ her mockingbird whispered at a place close to her breast as her children sighted her and came tumbling from the courtyard, all brilliant laughter and brilliant silk.  _Someday you may learn that, to your sorrow._

 

She had learned that, and her sorrow had been great, tears pooling between her fingers, mocking her, telling her that she wasn't a Stark of Winterfell, for a Stark was wrought of ice, unyielding, never melting in the depths of Winter. But sometimes, Sansa thought, pulling her children close, folding their golden heads close in an act she hoped seemed one of motherly affection, sometimes the song brought the greatest sorrow. 

 

The day melted into evening, firelight bright upon flagstones that had once been slick with her mockingbird's blood. Donall's son Soren dined at their table tonight, a stringy, eager boy of sixteen that doted on her Eleusine between bites of mutton, telling her that she had hair finer than any Lannister gold had ever been, that her eyes were sapphires, that she'd be half a woman come her sixth name day. Eleusine received it all with the foolish ladylike courtesy Sansa had taught her, blushing prettily and eating with absurdly delicate bites.  _She is far more beautiful that I ever was,_ she thought dully.  _I hope it does not bring her harm. She will shatter if dropped, and I am to blame for it all._ 'Mama?' She shook herself. Eleusine was peering up at her through her lashes. 'Yes, sweetling?'

'You were staring. Do I have food on my cheek?' Her daughter had a look of abject horror at the possibility, and Sansa fought the urge to begin laughing and never stop. They would find her some day, locked in some stone tower, rocking back and forth, maniacal and mad, with nought for company but her posy of winter roses. She pushed the image from her mind. 'No, my sweet child. I was only admiring how pretty your hair looks in the light.' Eleusine murmured her thanks, fiddling with the end of a braid until Calhoun reached across and tugged it, his hand still pudgy with the last of babyhood.  _The same age as Rickon was back then, and I feel I know him no better._ Eddard was talking to Soren now, mimicking his father, trying to be every part the little king, brow furrowed low in an attempt at dignity. She stared as though he were utterly foreign to her, remembering only to school her features into an expression of contentment when Phelan caught her gaze. 

 

She was inside the walls of Winterfell, only it was the Winterfell she had made in the Eyrie, packed crudely from snow, parapets carved with a clumsy finger. She could not tell if she was miniscule or her snow fort had become obscenely large, gargoyles leering under their snowy sheaths. Everything had a queer blue glow to it, and frost was inching its way along her arms.  _I'm a Stark, a Stark of Winterfell, a direwolf, a fierce beast of Winter._ But Lady had died long ago, and she was only a little dove, feathers mangled and scattered about her, broken and forgotten. She turned and walked into the hall, only it was all snow, no cold grey flagstones, and her footsteps left no trace. Her mockingbird was kneeling upon the ground as he had done all those years ago, only they were alone now, the Vale soldiers nought but harmless snowmen he'd made himself, helms carved from frost. He was whole, and smiling. He stood when he saw her and swept into a low bow that made anger bloom hot and bright in her throat. He didn't speak. He never did anymore, not in these dreams of Winterfell. She'd asked for peace and quiet and he'd given her everything she wanted, even in death.  _Petyr,_ she tried to say, but it came out only as a thin trill of birdsong. Nonetheless, he braced his hands upon her shoulders and kissed her brow very softly. She felt his fingers, warm, warm, warm, as though he was not dead after all, and the rasp of his beard against her forehead. But he smelled as her father had, of leather and woodsmoke, and was taller than he had right to be. 

 

When she woke, she was weeping. She did not know who for. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please don't hesitate to leave any feedback or comments (positive or negative- it's all valuable). I hope you have a lovely day and thanks again!


	2. Chapter 2

The roses were next to her bed, made silver by the moonlight filtering through their window. Sweat was rolling down her neck, her spine, gathering in the creases of elbow and knee, the cleft of collarbone. She tore herself from the bed and cowered against the warm stone walls, waiting for her breathing to still, palming the tears from her eyes. The stone dug harder and harder into her spine. It was the early hours of morning, the blue dark turning to mauve, moon heavy, its glow painting her from neck to cheek, rending her clean. Phelan was curled in upon himself in their bed, his brow creased into an unhappy line. 

 

There had been a wife and child before her, when Winter was at its harshest and he had been scarce more than a boy. He didn't like to speak of them, and told her about them only once. He had stared at his hands the entire time, as though they might turn into two great wings and fly away, mayhap taking him with them.  _What were their names, my love?_ She had reached to touch him, both of them still in their wedding silks, but he had folded in upon himself, ashamed. He remained silent a long while, listening, she thought, to the merriment beyond their walls, the sounds of men and drink and music. Or maybe he was listening to the voices of before, when his wife had still drawn breath and his child was warm to touch.  _I swear to you, my lady, that I'll never tell you mistruths. I'll never be cruel and I'll love you with every ounce of my being, as you deserve, gods be witness._ The breath he'd drawn had been thin and pitiful. She'd never heard a sound so lonely.  _But let me keep this one thing for myself._ She had consented, and they did not speak anymore of it. Later that evening he had kissed her scars and told her of her beauty, her grace, her fairness and goodness. He loved her with all of himself save for a small corner he kept just for them. She was content with that. It was easy enough to pretend she didn't know where he'd found the name Eleusine. 

 

She rose and dressed after a time, leaving Phelan to his slumber. It was that queer time just before the dawn, when the world had no colour and everything shone, slick and pale and pearlescent. It felt as close to the Winterfell of her dreams as waking hours could- large and silent and threatening to cave in upon her. She let her feet lead her, pulling her cloak tighter in an effort to keep out the chill that emanated from within her. Sansa found herself in the hall, cavernous and lonely without lit braziers, without men to fill it. She slumped in the middle of the hall, letting her skirts pool around her, her fine embroidery of direwolves and spring wildflowers rough and clumsy beneath her fingertips.  _Get on with it then,_ Arya had said, and she'd tried, she really had. But she returned, again and again, mourning everything that had been stolen from her. Arya should have lived, she thought. Of all of them, Arya was the truest Stark, the North filling her up to the brim, wild and hard and rigid. She'd believed Arya to be eternal, unbreakable. She'd broken nonetheless. Sansa tried to conjure up her sister's face as she'd been, when they had been at each other's throats constantly, Arya Horseface with her ragged braids and tattered needlework, back when they were so carefree and full of hope. Arya, who had only wanted to be a warrior, to be a part of the world rather than watch the days wax and wane through a film of gentility and embroidery silk. Arya's face was blurred, the features shifting and fading, dull around the edges. It could have been anyone, or no one at all. Sansa realised with a dull horror that she didn't know her sister's face anymore. 

 

Arya had almost been beautiful in the end, she remembered that much. Bran told her she looked like Aunt Lyanna, and the realm had bled for Lyanna's beauty. Sansa remembered sitting with Arya in her chamber as the younger sister pulled out face after face laying them upon her bed, trying to pick one. 'This is the last face Cersei Lannister shall see', Arya had said quietly. 'It needs to be the right one.' She petted them with her fingertips, with something akin to affection. Sansa huddled herself in the corner, watching her sister, realising just how little she knew of her now, if she ever had. Arya picked up face after face- scullery maid, soldier, fisherman, merchant, Walder Frey, Meryn Trant, septa-

'Got it.' 

'Arya.' Arya had looked up sheepishly, trying to move the face out of sight, back into the satchel. Sansa stood, snatching it out of her hands, staring down, uncomprehending. It was as though her legs turned to water, and she felt herself stumbling back into her chair, her hands tracing the curve of cheek and brow, the thin mouth and stubbled cheeks and lines around shuttered eyes. 'No', she heard herself say. 'Arya, no.' Her voice sounded thin and reedy, even to her own ears. 'Arya, no, please, anyone else.' Arya's arms were limp, but her stance resolute, unyielding. 'She's needs to know', Arya said tersely. 'Cersei needs to know that she has been fucked from the very beginning. He promised to bring her your head, Sansa. I'm going to bring her his.' Sansa felt something curiously close to a sob wrack her chest, but she swallowed it back. It was like swallowing hot coals. 'Seven hells', she heard her sister say. 'Seven hells Sansa. You actually loved him.' But Sansa didn't see her, didn't see anything at all. She sat in her chair with his face cradled in her arms like a mother would a babe. 'He's sleeping now', she said dumbly, 'I never saw him sleep.' Arya stared incredulously down at her. 'You said you were alright, after I... after  _we_ killed him. You said it was strange, but you said that you were okay.' Arya's eyes were cold, her words brittle. There was a nobility to her that Sansa hadn't noticed before, something in the way she spoke, the way she held herself, the way she  _was._ Her own courtesies and etiquette felt frail next to it.  _This was all meant for Arya,_ she thought.  _This was never meant for me. I was so happy being blind, with my lace and my dolls and my pretty dreams. What I wouldn't give to have that back. I was so naive, so utterly stupid-_

_You were a child. You're not a child any longer._

 

 _He was all I had,_ she thought, She didn't dare speak it aloud. Arya wouldn't have understood. _You had Needle and your list and your Jaqen H'ghar and Jon had his Brothers and Ghost and Robb his wife and unborn child and Bran had Hodor and Meera and Summer and even little Rickon had Osha and Shaggydog and I had nothing. I had nobody, nobody but him, don't you see, I was so alo-_

 

'He is the only face that can get me close enough', Arya said. She stepped forward, holding out her hand for it. 'Cersei was expecting him to return.' 

'He declared for us', she replied miserably, fingertips still stroking his cheeks, feeling as though deep fissures were breaking in her own. 'He made his own grave in Winterfell.' 

'Cersei Lannister will hear him out, if only to play with him. Like a cat batting a mouse- that's what she does, you and I both know it.' 

'It's a terrible plan, Arya, reckless. Surely-'

'It's the best I've got.' She had burned with such hatred at that moment. For Littlefinger, for Cersei, for Arya, for herself, she didn't know. She felt Arya ease the face from her hands, felt the chair at her back, bracing her upright, felt her heels grinding into the soles of her boots. She tried to ease her own mask back into place, to be numb and frigid, to tell herself that it was necessary, that she was losing sight of the game- 'Arya', Sansa pleaded, and her sister looked back at her, something like pity flitting across those hard eyes that had seen far too much, just as she had. Then Arya was gone, the faces with her. In the end, Arya had chosen the guise of a chamber maid, and she had died. 

 

Maybe it could have been different. But it wasn't. 

 

Cold grey light was filtering through the hall now, playing on the flagstones like heady ripples of water. How long had she been there, half dazed? Prostrate as he had been, as though the position was an atonement for what she'd done? Sansa eased herself up, smoothing her skirts. 'This is an odd place to pray, Your Grace.' There was a narrow shouldered man watching her from the corner of the room, leaning nonchalantly against the wall. He had a hawkish nose and whittled fingers that were clasped over a sunken, birdlike chest. She blinked. 'I'm sorry, I don't know you.' He stepped forward and she saw he was wearing an odd assortment of clothes: brown roughspun, a braided leather jerkin of magenta and indigo with carnelian beads along the shoulders, a heavy belt of moonstone and aquamarine worked in silver, slender almond toed boots embossed with roses. He looked rather like a charlatan or a brigand, she thought, and there was something rakish about his manner that she didn't like. He was smiling broadly, giving her great flashes of crowded white teeth. 'I'm Afal Kamen, Your Grace', he said, sweeping into a low bow. 'I have come to sing for you.' 

 

The hall filled quickly after that, maids bustling about to ready the trestle tables. Breakfast was a meagre affair of porridge and cold plates of last night's vegetables. Tonight was to be a great feast celebrating the birth of Spring, so the morning meal was small and plain, the porridge watered down to spread it further amongst the men, as to increase the appearance of Spring's bounty come evening. Phelan greeted her with a kiss, warm and cheerful, Eddard already shadowed at his side, Eleusine and little Calhoun trailing close behind. Afal Kamen was invited to sit with them, and he accepted, all bright teeth and clinking beadwork and greasy hands, having procured a cold mutton shank from gods knew where. 

 

He spoke of the South, of the rich vineyards of Dorne, of the populace ruling amongst the lands that had once been Riverrun, of the great trading galley establishing itself at what had been King's Landing. He told her children of maidens stolen away by heinous magicians or else bought for rubies and black amethysts from Asshai; or smallfolk fashioning themselves as knights and kings and great ladies of court; of grand fork tongued beasts that were sighted in the Stormlands, beasts with heavy blue pelts and jewelled bellies, ridden by grumpkins or the ghosts of heroes of old or else a fat drunkard nicknamed Ser Grape who had lost his lands gambling, depending upon whom you asked. Eleusine was slack-jawed with the splendour of it all, with the romance of beautiful maids and gemstones and gallant knights. Eddard pretended to be stony, but she could see his delight all the same, whilst little Calhoun was reaching out and plucking at the singer's garb, rolling the gems between his fingers. 

 

Phelan was pleased with himself, she could tell, especially when Afal began to sing little ditties to them as their children's breakfasts lay forgotten, congealing. He had a lovely voice, she admitted to herself begrudgingly, sweet and true. He was the sort of man she would have been fascinated with as a child, but now he left her only with a faint sense of distaste, souring under her tongue. But she smiled, nonetheless, and clapped delightedly when he gave an impromptu rendition of Jonquil and Florian.  _My poor Florian._ She thought of Ser Dontos, foolish, drunken Dontos. He had been kind, had saved her, but Littlefinger killed him all the same.  _Saved you? My lady, he was following my orders. And all for gold._ It had given her disquiet when she was younger, how easily he had delivered Dontos'  _payment,_ but she justified it to herself all the same. She had always been good at that, at making a song of the horrors around her. Petyr wasn't saving her for gold, she told herself. It is for love of my late lady mother, for kindness and for friendship. He promised himself as my true friend, he said it was all lies, forever and ever, save for us. He believed me as more than a pretty bird, to be admired from within a gilded cage. He showed me the danger of beauty, of songs, of whispering, of smiles, of patience and silence and lies and gold. The strength of those things.  _Gold buys a man's silence for a time. But a bolt in the heart buys it forever._ You should have listened when I told you that I wanted peace and quiet. But you listen now, do you not? Trapped in Winterfell, forever and ever, buried by Winter. 

 

'Your Grace?' She started, nearly knocking her porridge from the table. Afal Kamen was watching her with a cooly amused gaze. He had dove grey eyes, uptilted like a cat. They would have been beautiful on a woman, but they looked out of place on such a narrow, weathered face. 'Forgive me', she muttered. 'I confess I did not sleep well. Mayhap the changing of the seasons.' He waved her off. 'It is of no consequence, Your Grace. I was merely discussing my plans for this evening with your husband.' Phelan grinned at her. 'Afal says he has many new songs- of the happenings in Westeros now, and of the happenings of the Winter just passed. He wrote several involving you, my love.' 

'That is very kind', she said numbly, her fingertips pressing hard enough into her thigh to bruise. 'Nonsense, Your Grace. You are a figure of great renown- the Spring Queen of Winterfell, the Wolf in Maid's Garb, the Bloom of Winter, the Bird of the North. You have an impressive number of epithets, if I do say so.' Afal chuckled. 'I would hardly be doing my duty as both a singer and a purveyor of the land's histories if I did not include you.' He took a swig of wine, smacking his lips on the goblet's rim. 'I have heard you are fond of songs, Your Grace. Pray, tell me your favourites. I'll be sure to sing them tonight, and I promise, you'll never have heard them sung half so well.' He bared his teeth and it seemed to her more a snarl than a courtly smile. She did not bear her teeth in return, but there was ice in her voice, hidden under veils of warmth. 'You have heard true.' She spoke softly, gracefully, as she had taught Eleusine to do. Every part the lady. 'I am very fond of Fair Maids of Summer', she admitted. 'Jenny of Oldstones, with flowers in her hair and Season's of My Love too. But do not let me intrude upon your songs, Kamen. I shall be delighted with whatever you choose to sing. Spring is a time of such great beauty, and I find few ways better to celebrate than with song.' She raised her cup and took a dainty sip, ensuring her expression was soft and elegant and even a little slow. 

 

Eleusine leaned forward in her seat, enamoured with the idea of Spring, of beauty. She told Kamen as much, speaking at great length about the first spring blooms her father had planted outside the glass gardens, of the honeybees and the songbirds nestled amongst the godswood. 'There are robins and wrens and little fey finches' she prattled. 'Papa even found a nest of mockingbirds near our weirwood, though they seem very plain to me. Their song is very pretty though.' Sansa felt herself stiffen, Kamen's gaze upon her eyes narrowed whilst his mouth stretched ever wider. 'Tell me, Your Grace, are you fonder of blooms or birds or wolves? I have heard you referred to as each. Which do you prefer?'

'To be a woman, surely', she replied. 'Feathers and petals and pelts are all very well, but there is something to be said for humanity, I think.' Kamen smiled thinly and raised his glass, drinking deeply. His grey eyes were upon her, cold and unwavering. She couldn't shake the feeling that Spring had not truly come, that Winter was only hiding behind layers of daydreams and sweet songs, just as she was. 

 

She was within her Eyrie Winterfell again, amongst the godswood. The trees were but sapling twigs stuck in at odd angles, frosted with powder, the leaves of the weirwood translucent shards of ice that dappled silver light upon the ground below, strange fruit buds littering the snow. Her mockingbird was sitting beneath the weirwood, his heavy cloak nestled about him, silver pin glinting in the half light. He was not made for the North, she thought. He seemed so very small, almost childlike. She walked closer, his gaze flicking up to meet hers, weary and hollow. 'Forgive me, my lord, if you are at prayer.' He said nothing, just sat, huddled in upon himself. His hair was thick with powdered snow as though he'd been here for hours, waiting for her. Maybe he had. 'I brought you something.' She reached into her throat and pulled out a pulsing beat of birdsong. It crystalised as it hit the air, shape slick in her fingers until it formed a wilted posy of winter roses, thorns snagging her wrists. He held out his hands like a beggar and she folded the blooms within them, his rings branded open sores against her exposed skin, riddled with ice. He beheld the roses with something akin to wonder, weary eyes now bright and hungry. 'You must eat', she heard herself say. She reached out and plucked a petal, bringing it to his lips. He tipped his head back and opened his mouth wide, swallowed it, mouth springing open again for another. She plucked another petal, and another and another, feeding them to him until they were all gone and he was left with only the silver thorns laced amongst his fingers. Her mockingbird opened his mouth again and she heard-

 

Birdsong. A mockingbird, she guessed, the bird swapping from trill to trill far too easily for it to be otherwise.  _All lies. Deceit, but you were honest at the same time, naming yourself for what you were. Was it their fault that they never saw what was so clearly in front of them, pinned at your throat?_ Sansa blinked, acutely aware of the ache in her knees and neck, the damp grass creeping along her hem where she knelt. The weirwood leaves cast a bloody glow on her skin, the sky above a purple husk. 'Mama.' Eleusine was standing over her, hands folded primly in front of her. She had been playing in the godswood, judging from her flushed cheeks, dancing amongst Phelan's newly sprouted violets and inspecting the birds that situated themselves amongst the tree boughs. 'Mama, it's time to go. The feast shall start soon.' Sansa rubbed her eyes, half expecting to see her mockingbird under the weirwood, but there was only the ever present carved face, weeping sap. 

 

'How long have I been here, my sweet girl?' Eleusine shook her head. 'I know not, Mama. But you were praying a long time.' She paused thoughtfully. 'You look sad when you pray. Do the gods not hear you?'  _Oh, my sweet child,_ she thought.  _What a beautiful fool you are._ 'Of course they do', she lied. 'It isn't sadness, but I miss many people who came before you, sweetling. I pray for the gods to keep them safe and happy in the seven heavens.' 

'And they are all there, in the heavens, with the gods? All the people you miss?'

'Of course, sweetling.' 

 

'Who do you miss?' Eleusine asked. She was so beautiful, Sansa thought, like a maid in a song, all gold and spring skies. It was strange to her that such a creature was born in Winter. That such a creature was born of her. 'I miss my siblings', she said slowly. 'I miss my mother and father.'  _I miss who I used to be._ Not for the first time, she felt a pang of jealousy when she looked upon her daughter. To be so innocent, so blind. 'You will hear songs about them tonight, sweetling. They were very good and very brave, noble people. You should be proud.' Eleusine nodded emphatically.  _I do hope for her sake that is all Kamen sings of. That he doesn't tell her how my lady mother slit Walder's wife's throat open before they slit her own, nor how Robb's head was replaced with that of his direwolf, nor how I was complicit in my aunt's murder and how I hid, saying nothing when Sweetrobin made himself fly. I hope he only sings of dreams, of kind, beautiful, useless things._ She took her daughter's hand and led her back to the hall, Eleusine humming all the while, sweet and tuneless. 

 

'What are you singing, sweetling?' Eleusine glanced up, eyes wide. 'A song that Afal Kamen taught to Eddard and I while you were praying. Bael the Bard. Do you know it, Mama?' Sansa nodded. 'Not well, mind. I never cared for it, the ending is so bitter.' She thought of how Jon had told it to her, the evening before his last battle, telling her of how Ygritte had told it to him. 

 

A Brandon Stark from a long time before had allowed a bard into his hall, who called himself Sygerrik, deceiver. In actuality he was a king, Bael, who had climbed high over the Wall to reach Winterfell. But he charmed the Lord of Winterfell with his sweet voice, with his lovely songs, and so the Lord offered him anything that was within his power to give. Bael requested nought but the finest bloom in Winterfell, and so the Lord gave him a winter rose, blue as frost. The next day, when Lord Brandon awoke, his fair daughter had been stolen, the rose left upon her pillow in her place. Brandon the Daughterless searched far and wide for his beautiful daughter, but she was lost to him. Then one day, many moons later, he woke to find his daughter asleep in her bed with a babe in her arms, a bastard born of Bael's seed. Bael and the daughter had been within the crypts of Winterfell the entire time, hiding with the dead.

 

Ygritte's version stretched beyond the tale Sansa and Jon had been told as children. Jon had spoken each word sadly, clinging to the memory of the wildling girl he did not speak of. Sansa had known he would die then, his secrets laid bare for all to see, the sheer exhaustion in his eyes. 

 

Bael's bastard grew up to be the heir of Winterfell, for Brandon the Daughterless had only the one child. One day, the bastard rode to battle against the king beyond the wall, unwittingly taking his father's head, for Bael could not bear to kill his own child. When he rode back to Winterfell with Bael's head on a pike like some great, overripe fruit, his lady mother had flung herself to death from her window, for she had come to love Bael fiercely when he stole her away. 

 

'That is the way Ygritte told it', Jon had said, sitting very still, as though he could bind up his pain if he moved little enough. 'She said that Bael always sang of fair maidens falling in love with him, so I know not of the truth of the last part. But the important part is that we have wilding blood, and are from a bastard's line. The houses, the names, the positions, wildling or no, it matters nought in the end. There is only this great war, between the living and the dead.' He smiled weakly, rubbing his temples. 'This was all meant for Robb', he said. 'Not I.' She had heard father say something similar to her lady mother once.  _Brandon. This wasn't meant for me. This was all meant for Brandon._ Jon had stood up, hunched over like an old man. 'I think I will sleep now, sweet sister. I am very tired.' She had kissed his brow, she remembered that. He was gone by the time she had woken in the early hours of the morn, and she never saw him again. 

 

'Mama?' She had stopped walking, she realised. Eleusine was frowning a little, hands still folded neatly in front of her. 'I'm sorry, sweetling.' She shook her head to clear it. 'Were you thinking of the one's you miss again?' Sansa gave a shamefaced smile. 'Yes, sweetling.' Eleusine inspected her expression, and for the first time, Sansa felt as though she were wilting under her daughter's stare. 'You spend much of your time with the dead', Eleusine said quietly. 'Papa says that sometimes it is as though you live there with them.' Eleusine blinked, her gaze light and merry again. 'Come, Mama. Let us celebrate Spring's nameday.' She took Sansa's hand in her own, small and warm and dry. Sansa felt the closest thing to safety she had felt in a long time. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and please don't hesitate to leave any feedback or suggestions! I'll have the next chapter up by Wednesday. Have a lovely day.


	3. Chapter 3

 The hall was all aglow, strings of blossom from the glass gardens wreathed over the ceiling. Already the petals had begun to wilt from the heat of the braziers, dropping from the stems and raining onto the tables below. She spied acacia, violets, forget-me-not, delphiniums, jonquils, lilies, thick sprays of apple and orange blossom. Already a veritable feast had been laid out, the serving maids bustling about the pick out pollen from the platters of fruit and lamb and suckling pig. Flagons of mead and spiced wine were situated at each table, vintages from before Winter, rich and heady. Come morning, there would be many a sore head. 

 

Phelan sighted them, opening his arms for Eleusine. Their daughter flew to him, her laughter ricocheting off the walls as he spun her around. He put her down and kissed Sansa with such sweetness that she felt half a girl again. 'What do you think, my sweetling?' His voice was hopeful as he gestured around him. 'Is it to your liking?' She nodded, smiling graciously as he pointed out two new tapestries over the doorway, great swathes of silk and indigo wool. The first was the sigil of her direwolf running over a vast field of winter roses, picked out in pewter and silver thread, its eyes two fat garnets. The second was a depiction of the Battle for Spring, Jon leading the charge under the direwolf banner, the White Walkers cast in the great blue shadows of the last Targaryen dragons. It was made by someone who hadn't been there, she realised. There had been no horses, for they were all dead by the time of the battle, eaten for meat or else slain by cold and hard conditions. Jon hadn't been so noble looking either, no golden helm, no grand banner. He and his men had been weak and half-starved, some with rusted mail, most clad in leather and rank pelts, brandishing chips of dragonglass afixed to farming tools, for they had nought better by then. And the White Walkers had only been the size of men, not the gargantuan creatures displayed here. She looked at it a long time, eyes picking out each falsehood, each suggestion of glory.  _A lie is not so bad if it is kindly meant,_ she thought.  _And Spring is here now, the battle won. Hopefully my children shall never truly understand the great cost of it all. Hopefully I shall never again have to._ 'It is very grand', she breathed, clasping Phelan's hand in her own. 'Very grand indeed.' He smiled brilliantly at her, but she saw weariness in his features when he thought she turned away. Not for the first time, she wondered if everyone was just playing an elaborate game of make believe in the hope that if they pretended hard enough, they may never have to taste anything but the sweetness of song. She kissed his knuckles and gave his hand back to him.  _All lies. But how sweetly it goes down._

 

'Your Graces.' Afal Kamen appeared, dressed in a cloak of teal feathers dipped in bronze and a heavy necklace of horsehair. His rose patterned boots were polished to a blinding gleam, as was his smile. Sansa inclined her head respectfully, her husband doing the same. 'Should I ready my things?' He gestured behind him, where an assortment of instruments languished, the grandest of which was an ebony harp with mother-of-pearl filigree, standing a man and a half tall. 'After the feast', Phelan insisted. 'I would have you eat with us, Kamen.' The singer acquiesed, taking his place at their table as their people began to enter. 

 

As though from a great distance, she heard her husband bless the feast, asking the gods for favour, thanking them for Spring, for the death of Winter. She murmured something other the hall, something about an endless Summer as had been foretold for centuries, praying that this prophecy would come to pass. She appealed to gods she had not believed in since girlhood, thanking them for the the rest that now awaited souls lost in Winter, rest found in an afterlife she didn't think existed. The northerners raised their cups to that, cheering loudly. Their pious queen, good and true.  _A lie is not so bad if it is kindly meant._

 

It was something from her girlhood daydreams, she realised. How long had she dreamt of this? Of laughter, of abundance, of a noble king by her side, a singer for their hall, of jewels for her throat and men complimenting her beauty and grace as they made their way to the high table. She should have been grateful, she thought. She should have been so happy as to never want for anything else. And she tried, she really did. The sense of calm she'd felt when Eleusine was holding her hand was whisked away, leaving her with the impression that everything would turn to dust if she dared to look away.

 

Men had died. Countless men and women far more worthy than she. People who had been more worthy on every count, be it bravery or honour or cunning or sheer bloody mindedness. But here she stood, everyone's wants piled up underneath her, carrying her higher and higher until she should have had only sky above her, but it was only the roof of her cage, wide and blue and beautiful. There was a time when she may have been satisfied with this, no gaping abscess within her. _Back then I only thought about what I wanted, never about what I had. I was a stupid girl. A stupid girl that grew into a stupid woman._ For what did she want that she did not have? She had safety, peace, quiet when she desired. She had a husband who loved her dearly and respected her mind and body, who had never hurt her. She had children to be proud of, position and wealth and power beyond reckoning. What was there left to want? For Arya and Jon and Bran and mother and father to come back to life? She told herself that would fix it, but maybe there had been something greedy within her even then, something she didn't know how to fix. Happiness? That seemed to her as fleeting and unsatisfiable as wanting, shifting from one thing to the next as soon as her outcome was accomplished. When had she become so bitter, so immune to the goodness that surrounded her? Limp jonquils drifted into her goblet from overhead, and she had to fight a strange urge to weep there at the table. She afixed the mask of Sansa the Sweet closer and turned her anguish to stone. She had no right, she thought. No right to bemoan her broken soul when others had lost far more than she.

 

_What do you want?_

_I thought you knew what I wanted._

_I was wrong._

The way he had looked at her then, it had almost been like something from a song, surrounded by the pristine beauty of the godswood, snow upon her cheek. _A snow maid,_ she thought. _For a moment I was Jonquil, and he was my fool, my Florian._

_No, you weren't._

 

She reached over and gripped Phelan's hand, curling her fingers between his own. 'Thank you', she said. 'Thank you for this.' He squeezed her hand, brushing her knuckles with his thumb. 'Fo you, my love, I would do far more, and a thousand times over.' Before them was a hall of happy, raucous northerners, the air heady with cooking fat and unwashed dogs and flowers. She'd eaten her without tasting, accepting each portion Phelan presented to her with a quiet thank you and a look he would read as being tender. Afal was remarkably quiet, sipping only water. His mead was untouched, his plate of fruit and fowl growing cold. He gave her a thin smile when she caught his eye, dropping his gaze almost immediately. 'I have little appetite before I perform', he admitted almost shyly, glancing to his great black harp. 'It would have been easier to play throughout the feast. That is how it usually goes.' 

'You're an honoured guest. We would have you treated as such.' Sansa's voice was low, the cold slipping into it. Afal took another sip of water, his eyes returning her coldness. 'And I thank you for the honour, Your Grace.' Phelan looked between them, amiable, his hand still in hers. 'You may sing now, if you wish. The men have stuffed their faces sufficiently.' Afal Kamen inclined his head and scurried over to the harp, his feathered cloak giving the impression of wings as he went. 

 

When he stood at the harp, it was as though it were as much a part of him as a limb. He looked whole now, in control in a way that was more than his brightness and brashness and feigned exoticism. The northerners turned to look at the wiry man with the feathered cloak, their talk stilling. The atmosphere of the room was thick, almost bated with static. His cat eyes glinted, long fingers reaching out to pluck the first chord, watching them all the while. He continued that way for a long time, relishing in their captured attention, in the rising arpeggios his fingers dealt out. 

 

At last he began to sing, and it was a fine thing, his voice holding sweetness, holding tremulous sorrow, melancholy, joy, humour, bravery, all depending how he shifted it under the light of the dying flowers. Apple blossom drifted down into his hair, forming a corona. He sang of Jenny of Oldstones, of Jonquil and Florian, a hearty song he'd written of the Stark family in which he referred to her as a 'lady wolf of Spring foretold, beauty unparalleled, thus, behold!' and she had the grace to blush prettily and raise her goblet to him. He sang Flowers of Spring, then a ballad about Winter titled The Kings of Snow and Smallfolk, featuring Phelan as Jon's great friend and successor, singing of them as though they had been bosom friends, her Phelan, the smallfolk king. Her husband's smile froze a little at that- he'd scarce known Jon, but there'd been nobody else for her brother to name save this once common tanner's son who had saved Jon from his own melancholy not two days prior.  _It is better this way,_ Jon had told her.  _Have you not heard of the rebellions that are springing up over Westeros? The revolutions? I urge people to think only of the great war, but people are tired of the high lord's games. Come Spring, you will still have a place to sit  and a head upon your shoulders if you bind yourself to him._ She had protested, but Phelan had come to her soon after, and he had been kind. Kindness was something that felt foreign by then. When he returned from battle and Jon had not, she'd fallen into his arms, weeping as she was expected to do. She felt his grip tighten as he drew her close and she knew she'd won.  _Take this boy and make him yours,_ that old voice whispered at the back of her head. And it was easier than expected, to trap thoughts of Ramsay and Joffrey away, to lock away how Petyr had abandoned her, how Tyrion never loved her. Easy to tuck them tight and knot them and bury them where they wouldn't breathe again. Easy to look upon her handsome flaxen king, to conjure up warmth within her breast for him, to make herself feel love and devotion as a good wife should. Easy to give him her body and build herself a new soul. He gave her more than that in return. It was only fair. 

 

 _My featherbed is deep and soft and there I'll lay you down,_ sang Kamen.  _I'll dress you all in yellow silk, and on your head a crown. For you shall be my lady love, and I shall be your lord._ Petyr Baelish had promised her those things once. A nest high in the trees for the little dove and the mockingbird, with only sky above them. He told her that life was no song, yet promised her one all the same. She poured another cup of mead and drank it quickly. She'd never grown to like the taste, and it settled poorly in her stomach, sickly and burning. 'Sansa, are you alright?' Phelan looking at her his hand reaching out to touch her cheek. 'You're very pale.' She nodded, knuckles white on her goblet. 

 

_I loved a maid as fair as summer_

_With sunlight in her hair._

_I loved a maid as red as autumn_

_With sunset in her hair._

_I loved a maid as white as winter_

_With moonglow in her hair-_

Kamen's voice swelled over the hall, his plucking weaving in and out of men's conversations, amongst the drifting pollen, the heat of melting wax and tallow. She felt sweat garnering under her skin, but it would not break the surface. He head was numb, the cup at her lips again, and she could not recall how much she'd had. Her children had long been ushered off to bed and her husband was laughing bawdily at one of Donall's jokes, something involving a fishwife and a bucket of apples. She could hardly keep with any thread of conversation buzzing around her. 

 

_A land long paved by iron and gold,_

_By silk and wine and gems._

_There in the den lay the beasts of old,_

_Cruel and wild they were._

 

_Clothed in finery, mail and lore,_

_Tongu'ed like a snake._

_Lay lion and stag and dragon and bear,_

_Noble wolf among'st their wake-_

That wasn't how it was, she thought dimly. That wasn't it. The dragon had been far across the sea at that time, the bear had been inconsequential, and for all the beasts, it was the little mimicking songbird that had been the most dangerous, grey and innocuous, singing whilst the others slumbered. And Kamen had forgotten about the roses with their thorns, the rose that was left in her place to wed Joffrey, sweet and dangerous she was, but he died in his cup all the same, thanks to the mockingbird. But none of them see, none of them see at all, she thought. But she supposed that bird had always hidden behind other's songs. 

 

He was there if you knew where to look. 

 

The music stopped and Kamen stepped away from the harp. He was smiling at her, grey eyes turned to liquid silver under the light. 'Would you sing for us, Your Grace? I have travelled far and heard much of your beauty and fairness and gift for song. The tales of the former pale in comparison, and I would so love for the Spring Queen to herald this new season.' That roused the men from their drink, bolstering their pride, prompting calls for their Bird of the North to sing. She tried to refuse, but her head was beginning to hurt and she found herself bustled out to the dais where the harp was.  _Nought but a little dove, even after all this time,_ she thought miserably. But she wore her courtesy like armor, dipping her head prettily in thanks. She reached out to pluck at the harp and saw their faces, all of their faces, burning bright. There were tragedies spelled in the lines of their cheek, sorrows and hardships chiseled upon their brows. But there was joy there too, unfettered joy, and they were remarkably  _alive._ Eleusine's words came to her unbidden:  _You spend much of your time with the dead. Papa says it is sometimes as though you live there with them._ She looked out at the faces and it was as though she was looking out across a great divide.  _I can look, but I cannot see what they see, not truly. They call me their Spring Queen, but it is Winter that birthed me. What shall become of me now that it is dead?_ Her fingers thrummed all the while, and she sang a sad, pretty song about a maid in an apple orchard, who waited so long for her love that all the fruit turned to stone. The women hummed along whilst the men sung the maid's part in a falsetto, jostling each other as they rocked from side to side:

_And wait I did,_

_O wait I did,_

_Under bough and bud and bloom._

 

_And winter didst come_

_And spring and fall_

_But no sight of my love at all._

 

_He left me an apple each hand_

_And a stone to sit upon._

 

She saw Kamen standing amongst the men, his mouth frozen in the farce of a smile, and something chilled in her. 

 

Then the hall was empty and she was making her way up to her children's chambers, kissing their brows, whispering golden things to them through their slumber. Sweet songs, sweet things, inflating their heads with fantasies. She made to return to her her own chambers, taking a last glance at their pretty golden heads. 

 

Phelan was waiting up, his doublet discarded in favour of a linen undershirt. 'Your singing was beautiful, my lady love', he said, pulling her close. She reached out and stroked his cheek in return. Sometimes she had to count out moments like beats of a song, to ensure she kept time. She saw something of his sadness as he leaned in to kiss her, and wondered if maybe it was the Eleusine that had come before her, if he had promised her all the things he gave now to Sansa. Mayhap he had, mayhap not. It hardly mattered now, for that wife was dead, and Phelan never lived there with her, so far as Sansa could tell. He kept a corner of his heart for what had been, but it was like looking across a divide for him, a great river he'd not cross for many a year, gods be good. Phelan's mouth was soft on her own, tasting of mead, of honey. Sansa kissed him back, pliant, and he took her soon after. She was grateful for that, for the warmth, the opportunity to forget, to play pretend at being whole, even for just a little while. 

 

Phelan kissed her again before he slept, his forehead finding its way into the crook of her neck, arm laced over her chest. It was well and truly dark now, candles burned out, the wilting winter roses next to her bed caught only in the crosshairs of the moonlight. She closed her eyes before long, but their image was branded on her retina. 

 

The godswood again. Fingers of blue ice brushed her cheek. They were flowers, she realised. A cruel mockery of her hall that same evening. Jonquils and acacia and fruit blossom drifting from the sky, only the sky was netted over with twigs, like the glass gardens she'd made for her Winterfell in the Eyrie all those years ago. Sometimes she remembered it as having made those thatched twigs herself, sometimes she remembered it as Petyr having done it. It hardly mattered- he'd promised to help her rebuild Winterfell, and he had. Regardless of how she remembered her snow fort being built, he had kissed her then. She'd given in for a moment, from shock or desperation or resignation, she could not say. There had been disappointment at that, for she so badly wanted someone who wanted nothing from her. But he was all she had, the only one who knew her. 

 

She didn't find him in the godswood, nor the hall, nor her chambers. She searched every room in Winterfell, and it should have taken hours, but morning never came. At last she made her way down to the crypts and found him, cloak pulled tight to keep out the cold. He was standing in front of her father's statue, inspecting it. 'It doesn't look like him', he said plainly, and she froze. But she had given him birdsong, bade him to break his silence. Her father's statue was carved from ice here, rather than stone. It seemed more fitting than in life. 'Lord Baelish?' Her own voice was dulled with cold, struggling to make it out of her throat. He turned and gave her one of those empty half-smiles she knew so well, cocking his head to the side. 'Petyr', she corrected herself. He didn't smile at that, only turned back to look at her father's statue. 'Is there one for your mother?'

'It's only for the lords of Winterfell.' 

'Yet your father made statues for Brandon and Lyanna.' She sighed at that, glancing down at her hands. 'My mother always considered herself more Tully than Stark. I don't think she was ever quite at home in the North.' She saw his cheek twitch grimly. 'You weren't, were you?' Her voice was quiet, and she felt an urge to touch him. Her hand clenched, but she kept it hidden within the folds of her cloak. 'No', he said after a while. 'I wasn't.' 

 

He took a step back from her father's statue. 'I asked your father once if northerners melted once they rode below the Neck.' He shrugged. 'Maybe the reverse is true.' He trailed away to Lyanna's statue. 'It's odd how easily men want to bleed for a pretty face.' He reached out and brushed Lyanna's cheek, her throat. He glanced over at Sansa, thin mouth tilted. 'But then again, maybe not.' 

'Did you know? About Lyanna and Rhaegar, about how they were wed?' She remembered something flickering over his face when they came here before, before she wed Ramsay, before Lord Baelish had left for King's Landing, when she'd spoken of Lyanna's kidnap and rape. She'd seen something from the corner of her eye, something a little like smugness, like he had knowledge of something she didn't. She knew that look well, caught it from the corner of her eye even now, even after all these years. 'Does it matter?', he replied. 'The dragons are dead.'

'So are you.' He laughed at that, flashing narrow teeth, cold eyes crinkling. 'Yes, well, that can't be helped, sweetling.' His hand found her shoulder, skimming up and down her arm. It felt warm, even through thick cloth. But when he leaned close, his scent was only of the frigid air surrounding them, and she knew it to be a dream. 

 

Already the edges were fading, but it wouldn't hurt to hold on a little longer. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, leaning back, admiring her. 'Jon said that there was nothing when he died', she heard herself whisper, though her mouth did not move. 'He said that there was nothing at all.' Lord Baelish shook his head. 'Not nothing, sweetling. Chaos.' He offered his arm to her and she took it. There were rivulets of frost branded upon his throat where his wound should have been, sharp and sinuous, thorns. They made their way to the stairwell of the crypts, but she waited at the base, locking his arm to her side. 'We could stay here', she said faintly, voice sounding mad, fractured. 'We could stay here and they'd never find us.'  _Seven hells, Sansa. You actually loved him,_ Arya's voice whispered to her, curling itself around her throat. She didn't know it that were true, but it didn't matter. She knew him, and she knew Winter. Sansa reached out for the frost at his throat and his face crumpled.  _I loved you._ She heard it from every part of this place, all in his voice, in birdsong.  _More than anyone._

 

Ragged breath tore through her, ripping air into her lungs. She flailed wildly, clutching at her throat, feeling her heart pounding madly against her hand. Her other hand snagged at the posy her husband had given to her, turned to silver in the moonlight. Wrinkled petals came away with her fingertips, spreading over her pillow. Sansa sat up, cradling herself, waiting for her heart to steady, for the sweat streaming into her eyes to cease. Phelan had rolled away to the edge of their bed, hands splayed towards her. His breath was coming in pale whistles, mouth hanging open from drink and exhaustion. Her skin was tacky with dried sweat, whether from their lovemaking or her dream, she did not know. 

 

She put on a robe and opened the window, relishing the cool breeze that made its way through. Winterfell was made for moonlight, she thought. The hard edges of granite were all turned to platinum and midnight under the moon's gaze, everything else becoming velveteen. Something caught at the edge of her vision, waiting in the courtyard below. She leaned forward on tiptoe, bracing herself on the window ledge.  _My mockingbird,_ she thought numbly. She saw the edge of cloak, of feather, and felt herself smile, leaning forward to look closer. 

 

She did not know if she lost her balance or if she pushed herself from the window. Only that she was falling, and that it was not her mockingbird at all, but Afal Kamen in his great teal feathered cloak, standing beneath her window.  _You stupid girl,_ she thought. Then the fall broke her, and there was nothing at all. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone so much for reading, for your kudos and lovely comments! Please don't hesitate to leave any feedback or suggestions- I really appreciate it. I'm going to try and post again this week, but otherwise I'll have the next chapter up some time next week.


	4. Chapter 4

Water, the taste of silt under her tongue, of fetid blossom and the leavings of fish. She was swept amongst the current, the river rapids buffeting her along. How long she had been there she did not know. 

 

There was a maid kneeling on the bank, fingers making curlicues in the water. She had flax for hair, but her eyes were frost. She only watched, never reaching out to help. Then the maid was swallowed by a copse of silver trees bearing strange wooden fruit, and it was uncertain if she was ever there to begin with. 

 

Then there was a great fort built upon the bloodied pelts of lion and wolf and stag, tarnished trout littered in its moat, upon its walls, trailing from the hands of small red children who stood, watching, breathing from gills in their throats. Then they too were swallowed and it was as though they never were.

 

Water, frigid as it snaked itself over her temples and neck, her thighs and hands, rivulets catching in the thorns at her chest. She was choked by the heaviness of the air every time the current pushed her to the surface, air that was dank, gluttonous with noise. It pressed in upon her ears, greedy. No sense could be made of it. 

 

There was no voice with which to cry out, only the gurgle of water, its peculiar edge that cut at her sides as it bore her along. She was certain that she bled, but her hands were frozen in the river's embrace and she could not reach to feel. She didn't know who she was, only that she was lost in the water and had once fallen from a great height. Her mind teased her with an image of a teal bird carrying her a world away from where she'd fallen, over valleys and mountains of ice, over bridges guarded by snow maids and gullies manned by little grey birds that wore human faces, finally settling her within the river's arms. She didn't know if it was true. Sometimes, beautiful golden words came to her, but they slipped through her lifeless fingers as quickly as they came. She would have mourned their loss, only it was hard to mourn for something she could no longer remember. 

 

After a time, more faces gathered along the riverbank to herald her passing. Some cried out  _stone,_ some  _dove,_ some  _lady wolf._ Some called out to her, asking if she knew them, but she did not and turned her face away, dipping back below the surface of the water. There were fish there, wrought in copper, blind, reaching for her with long fingers. She would have reached for them, but the water kept them apart. 

 

The myriad of faces grew, knotted amongst the silver trees that had once swallowed the flaxen maid. They wept sap and danced upon willow limbs. Most stayed behind, watching, but some danced along the riverbank, following her. They brought with them a moon, flinging it into the sky with such force that it rained sweet droplets upon her tongue. Then the moon would fall again and they would pocket it a while, allowing it to grow heavy with sweetness again. One of the dancers was slight and nimble, moving with such fierceness that she would have wept if the river didn't drink her tears. The nimble dancer wore no face but brayed often into the din that clapped itself about her ears, cutting through, if only for a moment. Several others trailed behind: one with the pelt of a great white wolf; one with arms bound in bloody, reptilian scales; one who wheezed ice and blue roses from the stump of their neck. The dancer's were followed by the heavy shadow of a great teal bird, and it brought with it the scent of roses. 

 

Time passed again, and then claws scooped her from the water's grasp. There was screaming. The faceless dancer brayed and tried to reach her, but the other's held them back, shying away from the river's edge and the fierce teal bird that now plucked at her. The river's arms were strong, grabbing wildly at the thorns on her chest, and the bird and the water fought for a night and a day, the nimble dancer flying the moon up into the sky and back again. Finally the river grew tired and the bird wrestled her free. It pulled her from the water and dumped her upon the bank. Her knees sank into the marshy ground, hands clasped upon the reeds, body shaking as she vomited the river back into itself- silver water, fierce and dangerous. By the time her belly was empty, she was alone, and she was Sansa Stark of Winterfell once more. 

 

Sansa crawled into the shade of a redwood, though there seemed to be no sun to shield herself from, no indication where the shadows came from. Her hands were brittle, chest emaciated, hollowed and dainty as porcelain. Nobody watched her now, nobody called to her. The teal bird was gone, the only remain being a deep scratch upon her side that was wealing with blood. Whether it was from the its claws or the hands of the river, she didn't know. How long had she been- what, exactly? She'd fallen from her window, that much she knew.  _I believed I saw my mockingbird beneath my window, but it was only the singer that Phelan brought for me._ Her chest hiccupped at that. Phelan, their children- how would they know where she was, how to find her?  _You fell,_ Sansa's mind whispered to her, low and oddly sweet.  _You fell and your body broke upon the stone of the courtyard. There is nothing left to find._

_No._

_You thought that you could fly, you stupid little girl. You were nought but a pretty songbird with clipped wings, if you were even that at all._

 

The moon didn't come again, as she had hoped it might. Her stomach was still shuddering, twisting painfully upon itself, the taste of the river forming bile in her throat. The sky here had no colour, like the Winterfell of her dreams, but it had no lustre either, flat and dry and somehow dead. She was not sleeping, she thought. This was no flight of fancy.  _You live with the dead, Mama._ One of her children had said something like that to her once, in a time when she had tasted violets, spring. Mayhap it was Calhoun, though mayhap he was too small to say such things. Her mind was coming back to her, coming back from what the river had tried to take, but the edges were still blurred, fraught with holes-

 

'Your Grace.' The singer stood before her in his teal cloak. It was as though a lens snapped into place. 'Afal Kamen', Sansa heard herself rasp. Her voice was hoarse and raw, grating painfully as it made its way past her teeth. Kamen smiled keenly, baring far too many teeth. He pulled her to her feet and draped his cloak over her bare shoulders, covering her. She felt no shame at the realisation that she'd been bare. She felt far too tired, thoughts bumbling, a steady ache emanating from her throat.  _You live with the dead._ Yet it seemed that she ached all the same, grew weary all the same, bled all the same. Yet she was dead, Sansa thought dully, surely-

 

'Your husband found your body soon after', Kamen was saying. 'You were still alive, gods be _good_.' He bared his teeth again. 'You didn't make it through to see the morning.' He barked out a laugh, offering his arm as they began to walk. 'You should have seen yourself,  _Your Grace,_ staining your tangled silks with scarlet and shit. Your face was not so lovely afterwards- the stone made quite the impact. It  _is_ strange how much charm a mannered woman loses once her beauty is broken and her body soiled.' Kamen clucked his tongue, something between birdsong and a cruel jape of laughter, but she remained silent, her hatred burning mightily within her. He turned to face her, inspecting her visage. 'I think you'll find yourself quite restored now.' Kamen almost sounded disappointed at the prospect. 'But you mustn't fear, Your Grace. I'll be sure to make a right pretty song of your death. The Spring Queen presented as the last sacrifice to Winter, as beautiful in death as in life, flying upon moonbeams with pearls in your hair, your life a _wondrous_ tragedy, set to the melancholy plucking of my harp.' He pulled her along with a jaunty little step and then stopped. 'Here, _Your Grace_ , here we are.'  _Sansa,_ she had half a mind to say.  _I am Sansa._ But she said nothing, burying her rage at his glee about her death, her humiliation. She said nothing and instead looked at where they were. 

 

They had passed through a dense forest, she realised, a forest of inky boughs and silken leaves, damp ground underfoot. They now stood at the foot of a series of obsidian stairs, polished until they appeared to be wet and glistening, each step the width of ten men abreast. And near the top-

 

'The Red Keep', she whispered. A chill came over her, frigid air blanketing her as thickly as the greased feathers Kamen had given her. 'I don't understand-' Sansa turned to see Kamen's retreating back. 'Where are you going?' She spat the words out, courtesies forgotten. Kamen only shrugged. 'I have matters to attend to.' 

'But I-' He shrugged again, cutting her off. 'It is none of my concern, Your Grace.' He gestured flippantly up at the Red Keep, towering and knotted amongst the flight of black stairs, impossibly high. 'The king awaits.' He walked away, horsehair necklace swinging as he sauntered, rose embossed boots clicking despite the soft ground. Sansa watched as the trees swallowed him, a trill of birdsong sounding from their depths. Then she turned to the stairs and began to climb. 

 

There was no telling how much time passed, for the light did not change. She only had the measure of her own breathing, and of that she soon lost count. Still the stairs stretched onwards, each plinth wide and treacherously slick, the strange copy of the Red Keep falling away behind it. It wasn't so much like it as she originally thought- the buildings were far more delicate, impossibly thin spires of pearl and moonstone, ornamental birds of jet where gargoyles should have been, watching her, blinking with jade eyes. The stairs stretched on until they no longer did, and she was at the doors of the throne room. 

 

The doors were as imposing as those she remembered from her girlhood, only these stretched far higher, laced with branches of silver upon which more carved birds watched her, shifting as one to follow her steps. Owls and doves and peregrine falcons were perched upon the branches, wrought in rose gold. They were seated beside gaudy finches of yellow sapphire and garnet cabochons, with ruffled feathers of platinum. They made no sound as they moved, as silent as the dead in the crypts of Winterfell. She felt their gaze all the same, bated and cloying. Sansa stepped forward again, her limbs aching from the climb, sweating tracing her spine. She reaching out and brushed the door. It was carved from obsidian, just like the stairs, only it felt strangely organic under her hands, pliable, silken as feathers. Something deep within the doors clicked and they swung inwards. 

 

The throne room was vast, fluted ceilings strung impossibly high, waifish pillars holding it all aloft. The pillars were porcelain, with ruby leaves.  _Weirwoods._ Each face in the pillars was like that of a fine doll, all rosebud mouths and pale eyes. The eyes followed her just as the birds had, each painted iris framed by glass lids fringed with lashes of copper thread, yet they did not blink. 

 

The court was full, lords and ladies and knights all stood in neat rows in all their finery. They were balanced precariously on grey stone, encrusted with gems and vines and cumulus, all wearing glittering breastplates of costly metal, needlelike blades at their waists. Nobody turned to face her- all were turned to the throne, but they parted for her nonetheless, their movement a carrying whisper of silks. There was something strange about them and it took her a moment to place it. For all of their vapid, simpering courtesy, for all of their lush velvets and stiff postures and learned elegance, not a single one of them had a head. 

 

'The Spring Queen', someone heralded. She saw a fierce raven seated beside the throne, all ablaze with oiled blue-black feathers. It was as large as any man, and its voice rang, rich and throaty. The headless court turned to her then, powdered hands reaching to brush her own. Sansa shuddered at that, tasting mint under her tongue. The raven smiled, if such a thing could be done, eyes blank, betraying nothing. The throne it was seated next to was a replica of the Iron Throne, she realised, only it was far grander, blades numbering three thousand. It was made of daggers, all daggers, and she knew the edge of each was Valyrian steel. The king was perched upon it, shrouded in grey fur, a crown of rose-cut emeralds and feathers upon his brow. He smiled, and she knew him.

 

'Petyr.' 

 

She was acutely aware of the cold grey flagstones, of the raven at his side, of the blades upon the hips of these headless, faceless courtiers. She clutched her feathered cloak closer. She was a trapped bird and he a mockingbird in wolf's clothing. 'Lady Stark', came his reply, voice light. A mockery, she was sure. Sansa was uncertain if it was fury writ upon his features, or delight. He glanced down at her from his position on the throne, looking the same as he had done in life, grey-green eyes impossibly cold, everything about him slender and narrow and self-satisfied. He waited, mouth quirked up at the corner, though there was no amenability to it. 

 

The raven stood, wings folded over its chest. 'You put a knife to the king's throat. You said that honour demanded it. You watched as he begged and watched him bleed onto the stones of Winterfell. _Do you deny it?'_ What a glorious farce it all was- he'd always been one for showmanship. The raven waited for her reply, solemn. The courtiers formed ludicrous sentries about her, each more finely clothed than the last, almost like something from her childish fantasies. Almost. And Petyr was there, amongst it all, staring down at her, smug at how he'd belittled her, how he now returned the favour in a place that was painted as prettily as everything she'd once dreamed of. 

 

_The Iron Throne- your husband shall sit there one day, and you will be by his side._

_A picture of me, on the Iron Throne... With you by my side._

 

'You promised.' Her voice was nothing but a husk. 'You promised me, in Molestown. That whatever I wanted of you, whatever was in your power to give, you would do.' He leaned forward, a strange, greedy look to him. A hungriness that she remembered so well, a hungriness that wasn't to do with the hollowness of his cheeks but rather the keenness of his gaze. 'Please, Petyr.' She could feel the glittering of the blades around her, the soft knuckles that held them, the gurgling from cleaved necks. How much harm could come to her now that she was dead? Fear growled at the pit of her stomach and she felt as though she was a child again, stripped bare in front of Joffrey's court. 'But it wasn't what you wanted, was it, Lady Stark?' It was Petyr who spoke now, the raven silenced. 'You said so yourself,  _sweetling._ It was what  _honour demands.'_ He let out a wry chuckle. 'So what  _did_ you want, my lady?' 

'I thought you knew.' He smiled faintly at that, remembering another time. 'Peace and quiet.' Baelish's voice was scarce more than a breath, turning thoughtful, sobered. 'Did you get it? What you wanted?' Sansa frowned, staring at her hands.  _Always keep your hands clean, sweetling,_ he'd said to her once. She'd not done well at that. 'Yes', she said finally. 'Everything I ever wanted as a girl. It was like a song, a beautiful dream. And I couldn't help but want to wake.' 

'You wanted more.' 

'I wanted everything. But I had it.' Tears welled up inside her, thick and fast. She pushed them back down, knotting them tightly.  _Phelan. How ungrateful I was. How little I knew you, my love._ Eleusine's hair, dancing gold as she ran, Eddard and Calhoun playing at being valiant knights, rescuing their sister from the clutches of fierce dragons formed of make believe. But even now, Petyr's gaze cut through it all.  _I don't know if I ever loved you,_ she thought.  _Not in the way I loved them. But I knew you, and maybe that is better._ 'You promised', she said again. 'You promised you would do anything I wanted.' She stepped forward, mounting the first stair to the dais of the throne, then the next and the next, until she stood face to face with him. He looked up at her with something akin to amusement. 'You told me that you loved me more than anyone, that you would do anything I wanted.' 

'I did.' 

 

'Then let me go back. To life, to my family.' She was standing over him, feathers bristling. Petyr smirked. 'Oh, sweetling.' His hands were laced over his chest, eyes glinting. 'That's not what you want. It's what honour demands.' He raised himself from the throne and she was struck by how small in stature he was. She'd almost forgotten. 'Court is dismissed for today', he called out. The lords and ladies turned as one, every part the picture, below the neck at least. The raven by his side gave her one last look, before melting into a feather that Petyr plucked from the ground and placed back in his crown. He held out his arm, smiling. 'Come, my lady. Let me show you my realm.' She almost made to plead again, for life, for safe return to Winterfell, to know if he knew of her dreams of the two of them within her snow fort, but something bade her to remain silent. It would be better to wait, to see. A part of her saw the logic in that. Petyr was as good as a god here, it seemed. But another part of her acquiesced far too easily.  _Maybe he is right, maybe it is only honour that makes me wish to return._ But honour was what she had left. Wanting had left her selfish, hungry and hollow. She wouldn't make the same mistake as him.

Sansa took his arm, felt its warmth coursing through the blood in his veins, the softness of skin where his hand brushed against her wrist. Death was strange, she decided. Far closer to living than life had been. She remembered something that he had told her in the depths of the crypts, where not even the dead could hear them:  _even the most dangerous men can be outmanoeuvered. And you've learned to manoeuver from the very best._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading! I'm so sorry for the delay, my only excuse is that it is a pretty frantic time of year for everyone. I hope you all had a lovely Christmas and New Year. I'm very sorry if there are any grammar / editing issues, please let me know if you catch anything. Please feel free to leave comments- I love reading all your ideas and feedback. Thank you again, and I will have the next chapter up this week.


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